The Thorn in the Nest. Finley Martha

an instant, with the thought of giving pursuit, but the call for his services was urgent, and he hurried on again.

      Turning a corner the next moment he came suddenly upon a man and woman conversing together in low tones, who at sight of him shrank guiltily back into the shadow of the trees; but not before his quick eye had caught a sight of their faces in the gathering gloom, for twilight had already set in, and his ear a few words of their talk.

      "A pretty good haul considering."

      "Yes; and now we'd best be off."

      Suspicious words enough, but Kenneth had no time to think of them then, nor for hours afterward – so critical was the condition of his patient. It was only when on returning about sunrise the next morning, they were recalled to his mind by the sound of Mrs. Barbour's voice lifted up in scolding and lamentation.

      "Yes, they're gone, every one of them; – that overcoat, just as good as new, the shirt I finished only the day before I started from home, and that elegant bandanna handkerchief. I told you somebody would get in and rob us in our sleep, if you didn't fasten the door well. Perhaps you'll believe another time that my opinion's worth something."

      "There, there, Nancy, don't go on as if everything we had was lost. The town isn't so large that a thief can keep himself hid very long in it," Mr. Barbour was replying as the doctor stepped up to the open door.

      "Good morning," he said, "I accidentally overheard Mrs. Barbour's lament, in passing, and I think I can throw some light on this matter," then went on to tell of what he had seen and heard the previous evening.

      "So you see, Nancy, we weren't robbed in our sleep after all," was Mr. Barbour's comment, addressed to his wife.

      "No thanks to you, anyhow," she retorted; "and it's your fault all the same; because I wouldn't have gone out and left the house alone if I'd had my way."

      Mr. Barbour subsided. Why could he not learn how utterly useless it was to attempt to justify himself under the accusations of his wife?

      "And there you sit never moving hand or foot to find the thief and get your own out of his clutches!" she whined, moving about with disconsolate and martyrlike air at her work of preparing the morning meal.

      "Well, well, I'll go and see what can be done," he said, rising and putting on his hat. "Doctor, would you recognize the thief?"

      "I am quite sure I should know again the suspicious looking persons I have been telling you of," Kenneth answered as they stepped out together.

      "Now don't be gone all day, Mr. Barbour; breakfast will be on the table in half an hour," his wife called after him.

      "Very well," he said looking back, "am I to let the thief escape rather than keep you waiting for an hour?"

      "Of course you'll do one or the other – probably both," she fretted, as he walked on without waiting for an answer, "though it needn't take half that time to scour this wretched little town from end to end."

      It did not; scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before it was known by every inhabitant that a theft had been committed, and that a man named Brannon and his wife, people of low character, whose absence would be gain to the place, had absconded during the night. They were not desirable citizens, but the stolen property must be recovered, and the larceny punished.

      A hot pursuit was immediately begun, and before noon the culprits were taken and brought back in triumph.

      But as yet the town had no constituted authorities. What was to be done?

      The citizens gathered together on the river bank, chose one of their number, a Mr. Samuel Smith, as judge, and proceeded to try Brannon in due form; a jury was empanelled, the judge appointed Godfrey Dale as attorney for the prosecution, and another young lawyer, Maurice Gerard by name, for the defence.

      Witnesses were called and examined. The goods had been found in possession of the accused, but he stoutly affirmed that they were his own.

      Barbour, however, was able to prove property, and Dr. Clendenin's evidence was strong against the prisoner, whom he identified without hesitation as the man he had seen carrying away a bundle from Barbour's cabin the previous evening.

      There was other testimony, but Kenneth's was the most conclusive.

      The judge summed up the evidence, the jury retired to a short distance, and in a few moments returned with the verdict of guilty, and that the culprit be sentenced according to the discretion of the judge.

      The latter presently announced his decision: – ten lashes upon the naked back of the prisoner, or that he should sit upon a bare pack-saddle on his pony, while his wife taking it by the bridle should lead it through every street of the village, pausing before the door of each house with the announcement, "This is Brannon who stole the great-coat, handkerchief, and shirt."

      Brannon chose the latter horn of the dilemma, and a responsible person was appointed by the judge to see the sentence immediately and faithfully executed.

      The crowd waited to see the man mounted upon the pony, then scattered to their homes or other positions favorable for watching his progress through the town.

      He submitted to his punishment in dogged silence: glancing about him with an air of sullen defiance as he took his seat. Then his eye caught that of Kenneth fixed upon him in grave pity, and the look was returned with one of bitter hatred and revenge.

      "Curse you!" he muttered under his breath, "the day will come when you'll repent of this."

      CHAPTER V

      The Brannons fled immediately upon being released, after the carrying out of the sentence. No one mourned their departure: but Nell Lamar, having heard from Dale of the look the culprit had cast upon Kenneth, rejoiced not a little in secret that they were gone.

      "Dr. Clendenin had been so kind to her on her journey," she explained to herself, "that in common gratitude she must care for his safety."

      Naturally, being both friend and physician to the major's family, Kenneth was a frequent visitor at their house. Though noticeably quiet and undemonstrative in manner, he soon became a great favorite with them all, from the parents down to the youngest child; and Nell saw no reason to appropriate his visits to herself, even when unprofessional.

      Nor had she any desire to do so; and in fact his conversation was seldom directed to her. Yet it did not escape Clare's quick observation that the calm gray eye saw every movement of her young sister, and that no tone of the sweet girlish voice ever fell unheeded upon his ear.

      She was well pleased, Nell could not help loving such a man, or being happy with him, so would soon be provided for, and the major relieved of her support.

      That last would never have been the major's thought, his darling little sister was esteemed no burden by him. He was one of the wealthiest men in the place, held a highly responsible office under the general government, and had received large grants of land in compensation for his services in the Revolutionary war.

      Nell was fond of her brother, yet stood somewhat in awe of him. He was a reserved, rather taciturn man, and military life had increased a natural tendency to sternness of manner toward those under his authority which belied his real kindness of heart. He had never a harsh word or look for Nell, yet she dared not lavish upon him the demonstrations of affection her loving young heart longed to bestow; dared not offer him a caress; and he rarely gave them unasked to her or to any one else except the youngest of his children.

      Clare was more demonstrative and really meant to be very kind, but was as dictatorial and domineering in her way as the major in his, and before many days had passed she began to treat the young girl as a child, checking, criticising, reproving, and directing with the most exasperating persistency, and as having an undoubted right.

      This was very trying to Nell's sense of womanly dignity; and though by no means an ill-tempered little body, she sometimes found it difficult to possess her soul in patience.

      "Where now?" asked Clare one morning, addressing her.

      "To the woods with the children, after wild flowers and mosses," returned the young girl gaily.

      She was standing